Letters to Sherlock Holmes
by peachringsandbananas
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is dead, yet John can't stop writing letters to him in hopes he will return. Will he ever get a reply? Johnlock.


_Dear Sherlock,_

_It has been one month. I still keep tricking myself into thinking you'll come back and I wake up to that bloody violin and I'll jump out of bed and scream your name and yet you're never there. I'm just waiting for it to sink in how truly alone I am. _

_John_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Two months. Mrs. Hudson passed away last night. I can't figure out why everyone is slowly leaving me._

_John_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Three months. I'm still waiting. Mycroft has given up hope you'll ever come back. He told me you were dead. He's wrong. I believe in you, Sherlock. You wouldn't just leave me like this._

_John_

Four months…

Five months…

Six months…

Seven…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'm trying to move on. It isn't working._

_John_

Nine months…

Ten…

Eleven…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It has been one year. You are dead. Why am I still writing these letters?_

_John_

Thirteen months…

Fourteen months…

_Dear dead Sherlock,_

_Sometimes I wonder how you never noticed… This is ridiculous, you're dead and I can't even say it…_

_John_

Sixteen months…

Seventeen months…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It's my birthday. You aren't here. It isn't much of a celebration._

_John_

Nineteen months…

Twenty months…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Did you love Irene? I always thought it was impossible for you to love anyone…_

_Did you ever love me?_

_John _

Twenty one months…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Mycroft told me it was your birthday today… Happy Birthday. I'll have your present ready when you come home._

_John_

Twenty three months…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It's been two years. _

_I saw you in the doorway last night. You were playing your violin again and the music was beautiful. _

_Tell me; is that the music of the dead?_

_John_

Twenty five months…

Twenty six months…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_If I tell you a secret will you come home?_

_John_

Twenty eight months…

Twenty nine months…

Thirty months…

Thirty one months…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Everything is so quiet without you here… So boring. I've been forced to entertain myself by shooting the wall. _

_Look at me… _

_So lonely I'm just about becoming you._

_Come back…_

_John_

Thirty three months…

Thirty four months…

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Molly came by today. She wanted to make sure I was doing alright. I told her I would be fine when you came back. She shook her head and left. _

_John_

Thirty five…

Thirty six…

John sat down at his desk, the old chair squealing against the floor as he pushed it back. The floor had been worn away in grooves along the chairs path. The light above him was barely flickering, but John couldn't find it in him to care about the condition of his place of residence. He never left and no one ever came in, anyways. And all that was on his mind right now was Sherlock Holmes. He picked up the dirty pencil riddled with notches from his shaking hands and anxious picking away, opening the notebook that seemed to fall open perfectly from such frequent use. The whole routine was familiar and safe. His words began to flow from his mind, etching across the paper with such speed, you would have thought him involved in some sort of contest.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Three years today and I still am not over it. Your death. Your life. You. At this point, it seems like you never existed. Just an ever fading face in the back of my mind with piercing blue eyes that make you feel as if you are being analyzed every second they scan over you. Which was probably true. I always worried about that. I thought soon enough your brilliant mind would realize how completely dull I was and you would ask me to leave. Every night those thoughts rushed through my mind, and in the end it was you who ended up leaving… Why did you go? Was it something I did? Maybe you realized… Never mind. Sherlock Holmes, I am going to miss you and your ridiculous cases and your stupid habits and your idiotic disguises and your stuck up collar and that bloody blue scarf—I suppose it's literally bloody now… - and everything about you. And after so long you would think I would be able to write three simple words on a piece of paper you never will, and never can, see. But I still can't. _

His hand hovered over the paper, palms sweaty as tears threatened to spill over his eyelids, and he couldn't do a single thing to stop it. Before he knew it the tears were coming violently and without hesitation and every tear for three years that never got spilt came rising up to the surface. His body shook, both with sadness and with anger. Sherlock had left him. No matter what he had said over that phone that last day, it would never have been enough to get him to stay because John would never be enough for Sherlock, and that was that.

He could barely hear over the sound of his sobs, but he could swear a familiar melody was drifting in the air around him and it would be stupid of him to hope, but he did anyways.

"Sherlock?"

He pushed the chair back, sending it clattering to the floor before running away, pushing open the door to the next room.

No one. Sherlock's violin sat untouched.

He choked back another sob, turning to go back to his letter.

"What three words?"

And suddenly Sherlock was there. Not just another Sherlock ghost lingering in the corner of his eyes, but the real one, and he was holding his letter in his eyes and raising that stupid eyebrow at him and maybe for once Sherlock was just as stumped as John was, and yet John couldn't even take a moment to appreciate it because that was bloody Sherlock Holmes.

"I… What… Sherlock?"

"Naturally. Who else would I be? Please don't tell me you believe in that ridiculous "ghost" idea, John, I would be severely disappointed in you. Now tell me, what three words were you referring to because this has been bothering me from the moment you mentioned them a few months back, so far I've ruled out quite a few possibilities, but I can't get quite close enough to make a sure guess-"

"I love you."

One of the greatest sights to see is a surprised Sherlock.

"Oh. John…"

For a moment he didn't care that Sherlock Holmes is dead and he fell off a building years ago and this could only logically be a dream. Because Sherlock Holmes was alive and somehow he survived and he was taking those long strides towards him and then their lips were pressed together and tears were streaming down his cheeks and for a moment those three years alone went away and everything was… brilliant.


End file.
